Out of the Dark (Light & Dark #1) (4 page)

Chapter Six.

#6. Don’t forget the little things.

The days are long, but the nights are always longer. Though the monsters don’t find us, we hear them. Each night, their cries and screams echo into the darkness. Each night we fear that they will discover where we are. But they don’t. We stay inside as much as possible during the day so as not to let our scent get into the air. I don’t even know if they can smell us that way, but it seems feasible—at least as feasible as anything else these days.

Lilly plays with the toys in the little girl’s bedroom. Dolls and teddies, jigsaws, and more books than we’ve seen in a long time. She seems content here, happy to be in a home environment rather than living and sleeping in a car. Not that I can blame her, of course, though I am yet to sleep in any of the beds, choosing to spend most of my nights wandering the halls of the large house, keeping vigilant for the monsters.

I watch Lilly playing in the child’s bedroom, leaning against the doorway with a mug of coffee in my hand. It all feels so normal. A mug of coffee, Lilly playing on the bedroom floor, Mr. Bear by her side. So normal and yet so surreal. In many ways more unreal than the world we live in now. Her little face lights up as the dolls talk back and forth, her voice changing for each new character she acts out. Lilly’s hands direct their plastic limbs into strange directions and I frown as the game gets more and more heated, one doll hitting another doll over and over.

“And then you’ll die, you’ll die and die and die,” Lilly says loudly, and throws the dolls away.

She looks up suddenly as if she had forgotten I was there, and her face pales. She crosses her skinny arms over her chest, her eyes never leaving mine, her chin quivering.

“Are you okay?” I ask. But really, what kind of question is that to ask a child under the circumstances? Is she okay? Of course she’s not. How could she ever be okay? I rephrase the question: “What did the dolly do wrong?”

She finally looks down at her hands. “She was very very bad. She went outside when she wasn’t allowed.”

I bite on my bottom lip and move further into the room, placing my mug on one of the many shelves. I walk across to her place on the floor, and I kneel down on the colorful rug.

“Was it dark outside?” I ask and she nods. Lilly has never talked about what happened to her, and I have never asked. I open my arms, and she immediately climbs onto my lap and presses her face against the soft fabric of my blouse. “It’s okay. I’m here now.” I kiss her hair.

Lilly isn’t my daughter, but she may as well have been. I love her with all my heart, and it pains me to see her in so much distress. I wish nothing but a happy, normal upbringing for her. And yet, that’s the one thing I will never be able to give her. I can give her everything I am, but I can’t give her a normal, safe existence. And I can’t bring her real family back.

“I want to say sorry,” she whispers. “You should always say sorry when you’re bad.”

“You should,” I say with a small nod. “But you weren’t bad, you were frightened.”

“I was,” she agrees quietly. “I was very frightened. How do you say sorry to someone that isn’t here anymore?”

I pause, thinking of her words and what they could really mean before landing on the real reason for her distress today.

“You mean if they are in…” I want to say heaven, but it seems like such a bitter word on my lips right now.

“Dead,” Lilly says bluntly. “If they are dead.” She looks back up at me, her wide eyes full of so many emotions that I struggle to find the right words to help her, to ease her pain in some way.

Because she has never been this forthcoming with me. We found one another, and from that moment on we were each other’s. We had never questioned each other’s past, who we were prior to the monsters coming. It never seemed important. Yet now as I stare into her eyes, I feel it might be the most important thing in the world to her. She’s five, or maybe six, I think. Though she’s never confirmed any age to me. Inside, though, she’s so much older.

“I used to be a teacher,” I say, though that is a lie. But hearing that I worked in a supermarket stocking the shelves would be much less important to a child of six. So I lie. Teachers are superheroes to six year olds, and Lilly needs a superhero right now. “I used to tell my children that you could talk to people that weren’t there.”

She leans away from my chest to get a better look at me, and she cocks her head to one side as she tries to gather some understanding to my words. “How?” she finally whispers.

“You just close your eyes and think of the person that you want to apologize to, see their face, and then think the words.”

“Like a prayer?”

I nod, though I hadn’t really considered the act as a prayer. But I guess that’s what it is, really: a prayer, a wish to God—though I gave up praying to God long ago. Lilly looks away from me, her gaze going soft as she considers this. When she looks back up to me, her pale face is much calmer. “I can say sorry to someone that is dead?” she asks, and I nod again.

Lilly seems happy with that, and she climbs from my lap and kneels by the side of her bed, her hands clasped in front of her in prayer. She closes her eyes and I see her lips moving soundlessly, and I shake my head as I leave the room, giving her the space that I think she needs.

I’m taken aback by her candidness, by the way in which she has adjusted so well to this world. She is young, so young in so many ways—the way she sucks her thumb and clasps Mr. Bear—and yet she’s so grown up in so many other ways.

I make my way back down the stairs, taking a moment to tip my face up to soak in the warmth of the sun that burns through the many windows in this house. It gives me a temporary feeling of safety. Sunlight: our biggest weapon against the monsters, and the only thing that we can’t control as a weapon. It’s the middle of summer, and the day’s burn bright and long. Every day is hotter than the last, but I’m glad for the heat and the discomfort that it brings; it makes me feel more human. I only hope that the monsters feel the discomfort of the heat as much as we do.

I continue down the stairs, going from room to room as I do every day. Lilly has learned to relax a little, but I never can. My body and mind are constantly on edge, strung too tightly as if they may snap at any time. And perhaps they will. One day, but not today. My mind wanders to our safe spot on the hill above the ocean, and not for the first time, I wonder if I am doing the right thing by staying here. It had been safe there, beneath the light of the streetlamp, but the fear of that one tiny light going out was ever present. The fear of the monsters or other humans finding their way up the lone road to our retreat is constant. Here in this house, with its high glass ceiling and several exit points, life feels somehow more secure. Or perhaps that is also just my humanity tricking me, longing for some form of normalcy.

I head to the front door to check on our car. Each day I go out to turn the engine over, because one day we will need to leave here and we will need a vehicle that works. If the monsters do find us, we will need to leave quickly. The trunk of our car is now filled with canned food and water, grain, blankets, kitchen knives, and more. The food will only last us a week or two on the road, and that’s if we ration it well, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than what we had previously—which was nothing at all. We had searched the grounds this morning but found no other car around, but I struggle to comprehend these people, in their big house with all their food and trinkets, not having a car of some sort. But then, so much has happened between those days and these. Who am I to question anything now?

The car is there, as it always is, and I turn the key in the front door before pulling it wide open and letting the fresh air drift into this stuffy, humid house. I relish the air on my face, and give the smallest hint of a smile. Lilly must hear me open the door, because moments later she runs down the stairs, taking them two at a time, excited to go outside for a little while.

She meets me by the front door and takes my hand, and we go outside and down the steps together. I pause on the bottom step, looking toward the shadows of the trees and bushes surrounding the property. They could be in there, the monsters, their bodies hidden within the folds darkness, protected by the thick gray shadows. I look for any sign of them—disturbed soil in the long dead flowerbeds, scratches down the bark of the trees, piles of bones—but I see nothing. Lilly tugs on my arm and I look down at her.

“Can I?” she asks almost urgently.

Her speech is coming on so much more since being here, as if this place—this hidden, safe house—has opened her up, like it was the key and her voice a lock. I look into her face—her beautifully innocent face, filled with so much excitement, a beauty amongst the blackness—and I nod. She releases my hand immediately and bounds over to the small island next to our car, her soft curls bouncing around her shoulders as she runs. She lies down on the grass with Mr. Bear and rolls around on it, spreading her arms wide and giggling. The sound melts my heart.

I smile and make my way to our car, unlocking it with the silver car key that has the small key ring in the shape of Mickey Mouse attached to it. Lilly’s eyes always light up when she sees this key ring, as if she somehow knows that a giant mouse with red pants would be friendly. I sit in the driver’s seat and insert the key in the ignition, and after taking one last glance around to make sure no one is near, I turn it. The engine sputters but rumbles to life and I nod and breathe a sigh of relief. I close the door carefully and begin to drive around the circular island in front of the house. I pause by the entrance road, getting out of the car to check for any disturbance, but I leave the engine running. After a few minutes I see nothing unusual, so I climb back in and then continue in my circle around the island of grass. Lilly runs around the grass, following after the car, her little legs pumping hard as she tries to keep up with me, even though I am only going slowly. She finally collapses, exhausted, and lets out a laugh of total glee while trying to catch her breath.

I pull the car to a stop, and shut the engine off before I climb out and lock the door again. I look over to Lilly and see that she is doing what she calls ‘sausage rolls’ over and over, and I smile again before walking around the car and checking each of the tires carefully.

We used to have a blue Honda. We had thought it was gray until one night there was a heavy storm and the rain beat down so hard on it that it washed all of the dirt clean off. We had huddled together inside it, trapped, and hating the sound of the noise on the metal roof for the fear that the sound would bring the monsters. The next morning, when we had climbed out of the car, the storm finally over, we had seen the beautiful blue that the car had once been. Lilly had loved it. She had run her small fingers along the sides of it with the first smile I had ever seen from her, and I had almost cried at its beautiful sight. Blue is now Lilly’s favorite color.

That day had been good: we had plenty of water (thanks to the rain), we ate canned tuna, and Lilly had smiled often, her gaze frequently falling to the blue of the car as if she had never seen the color before. Night had fallen sooner than we’d expected, though, and as we tried to drive away I found that one of the tires of our beautiful blue Honda had gone flat. So taken aback by Lilly’s smiles and the brightness of the blue of the car, I had missed the flat tire. We really were trapped this time.

We had climbed onto the roof of a 7-Eleven that night, neither of us being able to sleep for fear of being found by the monsters. They had come, because they always came, and they had torn our car apart to get inside, shredding the metal with their sharp claws and teeth and smashing the windows. But of course we were not inside this time, and they had screeched and screamed for us all night. When morning came and the sun rose, they disappeared into the shadows again and we climbed down from the roof, retrieved what little of our belongings hadn’t been destroyed, and left on foot. Lilly didn’t smile for a very long time after that day, and I swore that I would never let that happen to us again.

I press my palm against a tire, but it’s fine. They’re all fine. Satisfied, I unlock and open the trunk and check our supplies. I hadn’t expected them to change, but I always feel better after checking. By the time I have counted each meal, calculating each ration, Lilly has come back to my side, exhausted and happy. She slips her hand in mine as we make our way back inside the house, and I shut the front door and lock it again.

I look down at her, pulling stray grass blades and leaves from her hair. “Are you hungry?” I ask softly.

She nods and holds her small arms up to me. I reach down and pick her up, and she wraps her legs tightly around my waist. I carry her inside to the kitchen without speaking and set her at the table where she continues coloring the picture that she had begun this morning: the black-and-white image of a cow chewing hay and a farmer with dungarees standing next to it. She colors the dungarees in blue, and I wonder if she’s thinking of the blue Honda like I had been.

I open the kitchen cupboard and sift through the various cans until I find something that we can make into a meal with minimal effort. Lilly likes pasta—spaghetti, preferably. She likes to suck the long pieces into her mouth, the red tomato sauce splattering over her cheeks. It only reminds me that we have no cheese, though, because there’s no milk, because there are no cows alive now, because monsters are alive and they had killed everyone and everything, and would more than likely—one day—kill us too. That is, if the infection doesn’t change us before then. So I don’t make spaghetti and tomato sauce very often.